


The Consultation

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Series: the sun will fade [2]
Category: Otogizoushi
Genre: Community: rarepair100, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-29
Updated: 2011-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mansairaku-as-Seimei pays his first visit to Raikou.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Consultation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'drink' at the rarepair100 comm.

Raikou dreams of battles he never wins. Night after night he tries to keep himself awake, pinching his arm or thigh whenever he feels the dull drag of sleep wrapping around him, but the illness has sapped his strength and always he succumbs to unconsciousness. In the dark realms of his mind he fights, dressed in dirty armour and carrying a sword bloodied to the hilt. His foes are without number and he is one man alone struggling to hold them back.

The dreams always end the same way. His enemies crash over him like a black wave and trample him underfoot. They swarm over him like ants. It’s just a dream, but he can feel them crushing him, battering him, pulping his body—

Raikou jerks awake, gasping for breath. By reflex he pulls up into a sitting position, then doubles over as a cough racks him. Tears of pain and frustration start from his eyes as he hangs there, head down, coughing up the slime of phlegm and bright, bright blood. A noise, animal and afraid, whines from him, and he reaches out, searching, groping for the square of white linen that will absorb the contents of his mouth.

Someone hands him the cloth.

He’s in too much pain to notice at first. It’s not unusual that he wakes to find his father or sister or a servant watching over him, so he takes the cloth and coughs into it until the white is spotted with stains of spreading scarlet and the fabric is wet through. Only when the shudders stop and the pain relaxes its terrible grip does Raikou realise that his visitor is a stranger.

He wipes his lips and twists the evidence of his illness inside the cloth. Lifting his head, he discards the soiled bundle into a reed basket, using the familiar action to compose himself. Then he turns to face his visitor and encounters a mask.

Raikou cries out, panic lifting his stomach and his heart pounding. He shrinks back, pulling the quilt to him, and all but collapses onto the mats spread out beneath his sickbed.

The mask doesn’t move, but a voice—soft, deep, like the sleepy cooing of doves at evening—emerges from it. “My apologies, Lord Raikou. I had no intention of scaring you.”

Gathering his scattered wits, Raikou sits up again, keeping a safe distance from his visitor. Now the remembered terror of his dream has passed, he sees that the mask covers the face of a man with long white hair, dressed in the formal black silks of court robes. Raikou has never seen this man before, but knows his identity from palace gossip. “Abe no Seimei.”

Seimei inclines his head. “My lord.”

Raikou sits straighter. The movement brings a fresh round of coughing, and this time he snatches up a square of cloth before Seimei can offer one. There’s more blood, and the cough tears at Raikou’s throat until he sobs, wanting it to end.

“Hush,” says Seimei, laying a hand on Raikou’s back. He seems to know where the pain is greatest, moving his palm in small circular movements. Warmth floods through Raikou. The tension eases in his muscles; his stomach relaxes. He wipes his mouth again and flings the bloodied cloth into the basket.

Seimei withdraws his hand and sits back on his knees. Raikou studies him. The white hair carries the acrid odour of burnt poppy seeds. The mask is made of wood, carved into features neither masculine nor feminine, yet it gives the impression of both genders combined into one. Painted the white of eggshells, the face is smooth, devoid of expression. The lips are red, the eyes staring and lined with black, as befits the mask of a professional dancer. The pupils of the eyes are narrow slits, not human at all.

“My appearance can hardly be pleasing to you,” Seimei says.

“Nor mine to you,” Raikou retorts.

“On the contrary, I am satisfied with what I see.” The response is ambiguous, the tone level. “Give me your hand, my lord. I need to feel what your pulse reveals.”

Raikou stretches out his right hand, palm up. Seimei takes it, circling the wrist and placing his fingertips just so. He remains like that for several moments, occasionally adjusting his grip and the pressure of his fingers. Raikou tries to sit still, but the dance of Seimei’s fingers over his skin make him aware of the illness inside him. Uncomfortable, he shifts in the bed and plucks at the quilt with his free hand.

Seimei releases him without a word.

“Can you feel what ails me?” Raikou asks as Seimei gets up.

“Yes.” The answer is not as comprehensive as Raikou wants, but it’s all the reply he gets.

Without haste, Seimei crosses the room. He slides open the door and calls for boiling water. Leaving the door ajar, he kneels beside a bag placed in the shadows. From it he takes an earthenware bowl and a selection of small wooden boxes and twists of paper.

There’s an economy of movement to everything he does. Raikou watches, spellbound, as Seimei sweeps out his sleeves and bends to his task. He takes a pinch of powder and dusts it across the inside of the bowl. Then he scrapes in a yellow paste and mixes it with a scattering of dried herbs, adds a desiccated object from a box and rubs in what looks like earth from another box. Finally he takes the jug of boiling water from a wide-eyed servant and pours a measured amount into the bowl.

The servant hurries away as soon as the jug is returned to her. The door slides shut, apparently through its own agency, and Raikou stares. Seimei bends low over the bowl, whispering into the concoction, and then he carries it over to the bed and holds it out. “Drink this.”

Raikou looks at the dark, pungent brew. “What’s in it?”

The mask is blank, expressionless, but Raikou has the sensation that the man behind the mask is amused. “Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.” Raikou takes the bowl. The heat of the liquid is contained; his hands remain cool as he drinks. It tastes sweeter than it looks, tastes of honey and ginseng and flowers. He drains the bowl, tipping back his head to catch the last few drops. When he lowers it, he notices the iridescent glaze, like the gleam of a crow’s feather.

A breeze steals into the room, shaking the bamboo blinds.

“Will this cure me?” he asks, handing back the bowl.

Seimei wipes it out with a piece of soft paper. “It will ease certain symptoms.”

Raikou wants to challenge him, the way he’s done with all the priests and doctors who’ve been brought to examine him before. Each time, in front of his father, he’d demanded, “Will this cure me or am I going to die?”

The priests and doctors had expressed concern and outrage. A young man with a grave illness should not speak of death, lest he invite the darkness in to take his soul. If he must speak of endings, let it be cloaked in allusion. His father always nodded and lent the weight of his support to the priests and doctors, and ordered more prayers said, more sutras chanted, more balls of incense imbued with healing scents burned in offering.

Now Raikou looks at Seimei and wonders if he’s different to the others. “My father called another yin yang master to examine me.”

“Otomo no Shushei. I know.”

“He thought very highly of himself.”

Was that a quiver of laughter passing through Seimei? As Raikou leans forward, hoping to catch another betraying movement, Seimei says dryly, “Many of them have such an opinion.”

“Them?” Raikou pounces on the word. “You don’t count yourself amongst their number?”

Seimei is silent, motionless.

Raikou realises he’s touched upon something he shouldn’t have discovered, something unwelcome to Seimei. He tucks the knowledge away to examine later when he’s alone. If he had his full strength and all his wits, he’d have pressed to learn more about this apparent rift between the Bureau of Divination and its most famous practitioner, but now is not the time. Though an invalid, he still has the heart of a samurai, and he needs to pick and choose his battles with care. Seimei could be an ally, but just as easily he could be an enemy.

“The other yin yang master put those up.” Raikou indicates the slips of paper inscribed with strange symbols that hang from the ceiling all around the outside of the room. “I don’t like them. They flutter in the slightest breeze like spirits trying to attract my attention.”

“Otomo no Shushei is a fool.” Seimei stands and paces around the room, catching at the paper strips, tearing them down. “They’re all fools. All of them.”

Startled by this sudden display of anger, Raikou pushes himself onto his knees. He reaches for the crumpled strips of paper, intending to sweep them into the basket. A cough seizes him. His limbs shake and he rocks forward. He’s aware of Seimei standing motionless, staring at him. Raikou grabs for a square of white cloth and coughs into it, over and over. Despite the severity of the cough, there’s no pain.

He takes the cloth from his mouth. It’s damp with spittle, but there’s no blood. Surprised, he stares at the evidence for a long moment, and then he looks at Seimei.

“Do you feel pain anywhere?” Seimei asks, voice low, his head tilted.

“No.” Joy blossoms in Raikou. He allows himself to believe, to hope. He clutches the cloth, crushing it between his hands. “A thousand thanks, Lord Seimei!”

“You are not cured yet.”

The comment, stark and abrupt, takes the edge off Raikou’s happiness. Deflated, he sits on his bedroll and tosses the clean cloth into the basket. “No. Of course not. But...”

Seimei approaches the bed and lays a hand on Raikou’s brow. His touch is cool, soothing. “Rest,” he says, easing Raikou down onto the bed and covering him with the quilt. “Rest now. I will come again.”


End file.
